


First Birthday

by DevBasaa



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Cupcakes, M/M, Not-quite recovered!Bucky, Sappy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-11
Updated: 2015-03-11
Packaged: 2018-03-17 08:11:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3521882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DevBasaa/pseuds/DevBasaa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set not long after Bucky comes to Avenger's Tower for recovery.  He's made progress, but has a long way to go and a birthday doesn't necessarily help matters.  At least, so he thinks.</p>
<p>Happy Birthday, Bucky!</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Birthday

“What’s this?”

Bucky turned from the long mirrored wall of the 8th floor gym. He’d been deep in his routine of forms, blended from judo, hapkido with a touch of tai chi--whatever he needed to keep up his skills. It’d been Natasha's suggestion and he’d made them a daily commitment.

Steve had walked in, plopped the small plate down on the bench and hadn’t waited for Bucky to respond. He was already to the elevator door, pushing the button to take him back up to the Avenger’s common room. He preferred the gym Tony had created for him up there and generally didn’t join Bucky at the the 8th floor gym. Besides, Bucky preferred the solitude here and he supposed Steve respected that.

Steve quirked his mouth into a small, crooked smile, making him look an odd combination of mischievous and sad. “I believe they call that a cupcake.”

Bucky raised one brow; he didn’t answer Steve’s smile with one of his own. He found that difficult, still. He wasn’t used to the verbal games, either: sarcasm, jokes. He’d gone too long without such interactions.

“Right. Why the cupcake?”

Steve shoved his hands into the pockets of his workout pants. The elevator door opened and he did nothing, letting it close again. Then he shrugged. “I figured you wouldn't remember, but I still wanted to--I don’t know...do something.”

Bucky waited. That hadn’t been an answer.

Steve tilted his head to the side. “It’s your birthday.”

Bucky felt his gut twist. There were so many things he did remember: assassinations, battles, pain, torture. But he couldn’t remember his own damn birthday? He couldn’t remember celebrating it with a friend?

Then again, when _had_ he last celebrated it?

Bucky grimaced and turned back to the mirror. “I’m not sure I want to bother with things like birthdays. How many years has it not mattered?” He shifted into one of his crouching forms. “It’s not that big of a deal.” Bucky then swept his leg and shifted into the next form.

Steve’s voice was quieter than normal. “It’s a big deal to me.”

Bucky stopped. He looked up to see Steve’s sad smile faded into a dull frown and a crease of worry folding his brow.

Natasha had said, _“You don’t have to be cold here. There’s no reason for it.”_ At the time, Bucky thought she meant the temperature. She’d recently handed him a blanket, after all. But Steve, in small, subtle ways--in a collection of gestures and responses--reminded Bucky that temperature had little to do with it.

Bucky twisted around to sit on the gym floor, facing Steve. When he could, he drew from the memories he had. They didn’t generally bring him joy--mostly reminding him of things he’d lost--but it wasn’t always about him. 

“You hated when I made a stink about your birthday. You would volunteer to work extra hours at that accountant’s office on Dekalb street to avoid any plans I tried to make.”

Steve made a sweeping, frustrated gesture, but Bucky didn’t miss his renewed smile. “THAT you remember!”

Bucky chuckled softly. It still felt unfamiliar--to laugh, to smile--but the longer he spent with Steve, the more often it happened. Lately, without even a thought to it, as natural as a sigh.

Steve nodded, his smile still mischievous, though less sad. “See? So don’t be like I was and just eat the damn cupcake, OK?” He then turned for the elevator again, scuffing his feet as he pushed the call button. 

That deep twist in Bucky’s gut returned and he spoke without thinking. “But--”

Steve looked over his shoulder, his brow raised, waiting for Bucky’s next word. Only, Bucky wasn’t sure what he meant it to be. 

Then he glanced at the gym bench and at the little dark chocolate cupcake with green frosting and white sprinkles sitting on a simple, pale blue plate.

Bucky grabbed the plate and then held it aloft, as if offering it up towards Steve. “You should eat it with me.”

Steve smiled as brightly as the first time Bucky had responded to his own name. He nodded and crossed the gym floor to sit down before Bucky. 

Bucky often had moments of stray memory, a sensation like deja-vu, when he looked at Steve and expected to see something else. Usually it was his youthful, small build--a tiny, weak, if eager, frame. Of course, that hadn’t been Steve for a long time. Bucky had even known him for years after his change. But that lingering, faded expectation often appeared.

Steve took the plate. “The bakery only had cupcakes for St. Patrick’s Day.”

Bucky raised one brow. “They make cupcakes for St. Patrick’s Day?”

“They do now.”

Steve used his fingers to divide the cupcake. The frosting pulled apart like gelatinous blood wiped from a dead man’s face.

Bucky tried not to think of it like that.

He took the offered half and bit in, the moist cake crumbling in his hand. It was sickeningly sweet. But, of course, he couldn’t remember eating very much in the last seventy-plus years. All his nutrients were essential and had been delivered via a centrally placed catheter. Even lipids had been dripped in, a milky white liquid which came from a jar. Nothing had taste.

But the smile on Steve’s face made Bucky smile as he suffered through chewing and swallowing. Though, hadn’t he once begged for Mrs. Roger’s pound cake? Wasn’t there a time when he’d steal fingers-full of frosting from his mother’s mixing bowls? He supposed if he didn’t eat cake every once in a while, he’d never remember those things.

“Good, huh?” Steve said. Bucky nodded and took a second (and thankfully) final bite.

Steve’s grin quirked again, another mischievous look. He nodded towards Bucky. “You’ve got a bit--” But he said no more.

“A bit what?”

The touch was sudden, but Bucky prided himself on no longer jumping away from contact. Steve touched lightly at first, but then drew his thumb firmly across the bottom of Bucky’s lip. The warmth that flooded through Bucky was wholly unexpected. He felt his heart pound as if he’d sprinted up ten flights of stairs.

“Just some crumbs,” Steve said.

“Uh huh…” Bucky tried to catch his breath, which had left him in his shock. But then he had a flash of stray memory again, of Steve and him. Another deja-vu. Only it wasn’t a homely, thin and friendly face he saw, as usual, but Steve as he looked now--all muscle and flesh--bare and flush at Bucky’s side, reaching for him.

Bucky’s heart beat harder.

“You OK?”

Bucky swallowed; had the cake made his mouth this dry? Had the memory shocked him that much?

Of course it did.

He looked up at Steve, his gaze wider than before. Steve set the plate aside and shifted closer, that line of worry in his brow much deeper now. He laid his hand on Bucky’s knee. “Are you having a flashback? It’s OK, I’m right here.”

Bucky shook his head, even as he said, “Yes,” then added. “No, not--It’s from before.” He closed his eyes and reached for the memory. He saw smiles and laughter--which wasn’t new. Most of his memories of small, thin Steve involve making him laugh, distracting him from his worries. This was altogether different. He saw and felt the closeness; he recalled himself leaning near and kissing Steve entirely unlike that of an old friend. It felt natural, familiar.

“You look shocked, is it a good memory?”

Bucky opened his eyes and then looked up at Steve; he took a deep breath. Everything settled as he gazed at him and realized the truth behind what he saw. Steve had always been more than just a good friend. This was why Bucky mattered so much, why Steve tried so hard. It was why his birthday meant something to Steve. 

“I think it is.”

Steve’s smile spread. “Well, that’s a birthday present unto itself, I guess.”

Bucky glanced down at Steve’s hand still resting on his knee, giving comfort. Taking comfort. Bucky slipped his hand over Steve’s and turned it so he could thread their fingers together. He looked back up at Steve. “Yeah.”

Steve’s expression shifted, his own surprise taking over. “Oh. You remember.”

Bucky nodded. “I remember.”

Steve smiled again, as wide and bright as Bucky could ever recall seeing it. He squeezed Bucky’s hand and whispered, “Happy birthday.”

Bucky didn’t even have to brace himself for the touch when it came. He closed his eyes and felt the press of Steve’s mouth to his own. He leaned into a body that felt as familiar as his own and now he understood why. 

And it was a big deal; it did matter. 

The first birthday he’d had in a lifetime finally gave him something wonderful to remember.

 

THE END


End file.
